


necropsy of love

by Arwyn



Category: due South
Genre: (but both those tags still apply), (this is neither a poem nor dubcon/noncon), Consent Issues, M/M, Masturbation, Poetry, Post-Call of the Wild, Pre-Relationship, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwyn/pseuds/Arwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I have sat in wait in stake-outs, from the coldest arctic to odiferous Chicago, for days at a time. I have stood guard -- pointless, ceremonial guard -- over an empty consulate. I have waited years to make my feelings known, every day keeping quiet out of loyalty and propriety.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nothing, nothing has tried my patience as much as the subtle, rhythmic sounds coming from the bedroll next to mine.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	necropsy of love

**Author's Note:**

> In theory, this is a snippet from a longer work, referred to in potentia as "fraser's consent issues". 
> 
> All you need to know is Ray and Fraser went on the Quest; Fraser put the moves on Ray; Ray pointed out the dubiousness of one's ability to consent under such circumstances; and Fraser -- rather than listening to the twenty thousand times after that Ray protested that it was _fine_ , he didn't mean he _couldn't_ consent, he was consenting, dammit, fucking let him show how much he was consenting! -- freaked the fuck out. And declared that nothing would happen between them until they were in a location where Ray could both survive on his own and leave should he wish.
> 
> This is Ray's response.

I have sat in wait in stake-outs, from the coldest arctic to odiferous Chicago, for days at a time. I have stood guard -- pointless, ceremonial guard -- over an empty consulate. I have waited years to make my feelings known, every day keeping quiet out of loyalty and propriety.

Nothing, _nothing_ has tried my patience as much as the subtle, rhythmic sounds coming from the bedroll next to mine.

His breath is catching. This night’s torture -- the same as every night before it for the past eleven days -- is drawing to an end.

Would that I could say the same of the agony in my groin, and the guilt in my heart.

His movements are jerkier now, faster, smaller, but somehow more violent. His breath constricts on the sibilant -- _ffffff_ \-- but as he never finishes the word, I don’t know whether he means to curse or to call for me.

They sound the same coming from his mouth, these days.

It is thirty-four below outside the tent, below freezing even in here, and I feel as though I am going to combust from the heat generated inside me, by this man.

Oh dear lord, he’s panting now, slowing down -- he wants to make it linger, this night.

He did that more frequently, that first week.

(The second, third, and fourth nights he slowed long enough to speak -- to tease, to taunt, to, by the end, implore -- but realized, at last, the futility. I will not waiver, no matter his actions. His beautiful, torturous actions.)

He swallows, takes a longer breath. “You are such an asshole.”

“Yes.” It comes out a whisper; he hears me, regardless.

“Say something. God, Fraser, say something, I don’t care what, just -- please.”

And how can I not? I deny him every other touch; he denies me the quiet escape of sleep: I cannot deny him this.

“‘If it came about you died, it might be said I loved you.’”

He curses when I speak of death; spits my name like a curse and moves his hand faster once again when I speak of love.

What hypothermic sprite made me choose this work, of all others, I will never know.

I get to the short poem’s middle, the end of my equanimity, and stumble over the next lines. “‘But hold my separate madness like a sword / and plunge --” We both gasp. “--plunge it in your, your body, all night long.’”

And it is done -- not the poem, but the sweeter poetry of his breath and its accompanying sussaruss. He stutters on exhale, grunts, moans. Stills his hand, breath loud and heavy on the exhale, his flesh made drunken-sweet.

He reaches across the darkness with his hand, places it on my shoulder. I close my eyes against the moonlight -- and the touch.

“How much longer to Inuvik?”

It takes me twice before my mouth, dry as bones, can form the words, before they fall like bones from my mouth. “Six days.”

“Six fucking days.” He huffs a laugh. “Well. Suit yourself. Just don’t die of blue balls before then, because I won’t say I love you if you’re a goddamn corpse, okay?”

 _Okay_. I cannot speak it, but he seems to understand.

“Yeah. Okay. G’night, Fraser.”

He squeezes my shoulder once again, before he falls asleep.

 _I will die of this love_ , I think. _But it will be worth it_.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, lines, and recognizeable references from Al Purdy's [Necropsy of Love](http://tomasontario.tripod.com/mains_ite/bookrecs/Writers/purdy.html%22). 
> 
> You can listen to the man himself [read it on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBPBcriV810). (Purdy, not Fraser.)


End file.
